Hooked Up: Book 3 (31 page)

I noticed the policeman’s thin lips quiver with rage. James answering back, in his pompous Etonian accent, had really got his goat.

The officer, a small and ‘important’ man, told him, “Alright, so be it. I’m arresting you
both
on suspicion of manslaughter.” He puffed up his chest and said in a monotone, “You have the right to remain silent, if you give up this right, anything you say can, and will, be used as evidence against you in the court of law. You have the right to . . . ”

The man’s voice was a swirl of words spinning about in my dazed head. I felt as if someone was smothering me with cotton wool. I tented my fingers in front of my face and mumbled, “This is crazy.” But I noticed a sneer on the policeman’s lily-white face. Damn. I shouldn’t have spoken.

The other officer said, in a broad Cockney accent, “What
are
you? Bloody
foreign
or somefink?”

I was aware that I shouldn’t have opened my mouth. My French accent would not go down well. At all. The English hated the French, it was common knowledge.
Frogs,
they called us. The French, in return, nicknamed the Brits ‘Roast Beef,’ not because of their national dish, but because of the color their bodies turned in summer as they slumped about Mediterranean beaches sporting agonizing sunburns.

James piped up, “It’s him you should be questioning, not me! He broke into my house, I tell you.”

I wanted to defend myself, explain I’d been invited, that the back door was open and I had a key to the garage, but I bit my lip. I needed to stay calm, wait for my attorney to be present. I simply shook my head.

“So you don’t know this man?” asked the policewoman, looking at James.

“Yes, I
do
know him, I told you that, downstairs. He’s my wife’s ex-boyfriend.”

“Is this true, sir?” the Napoleon complex officer asked me.

“I’d rather wait to give my statement down at the station with my lawyer present, if you don’t mind,” I answered quietly. I knew my rights. I couldn’t be kept at a police station for more than twenty-four hours without being charged, although this could be extended to thirty-six hours with the authority of a police superintendent, and for up to ninety-six hours with the authority of a magistrate, which is exactly what could happen if they got wind of the whole IVF nonsense. I could hear them downstairs, probably the forensics team—shit, now I thought about it, traipsing upstairs wasn’t such a great idea. My footprints would be all over the staircase, proof that I could have pushed Laura. After all, it wasn’t my house. James could have his footprints or fingerprints anywhere, and so what? But I was another story, altogether. That, plus coming in from the back when nobody was home, did not look good at all.

James cried out, pointing his skinny finger like a weapon at me, “It’s him you should be worried about. He was having a bloody affair with my wife!”

The policeman smirked as if he’d made a great discovery, and said to James, “So, sir, that would give you a good motive, wouldn’t it?”

“Should I handcuff them, sir?” the female officer asked.

“Look, that really won’t be necessary,” James blurted out. “This is absurd. This is my bloody house! You think I’m going to kill my own wife? I’m the one who called
you,
for Christ’s sake? You think I would have made that phone call if I’d been guilty of murder?”

“Actually, a neighbor called 999 before your call came in,” the woman said. “She heard a woman scream.”

The officer in charge shot her a poisonous look. She’d obviously said too much. She covered her mouth with her hand in embarrassment.

Laura screamed, did she? I didn’t think that James was capable of murder, but who knew? My mother had killed, and I hadn’t imagined Laura would be capable of blackmail. People did strange things under pressure. Maybe Laura was threatening James in some way, and he needed her out of the picture. It seemed odd that she would fall down the stairs in her own house, even with heeled slippers. It wasn’t even dark.

“Look sir, we can either do this peacefully and you come with us nice and quietly down to the station for questioning, or we’ll have to cuff you.”

It was still very civilized in Britain, I thought. In the USA, James and I would have been on the floor by now, wrists cuffed behind our backs and a gun held to our heads. Yet here, they were politely asking us to come along to the station for questioning. I knew a little about the law in Britain and the way the system worked. My new partner, the one I was starting the video game company with, had once been arrested for dealing marijuana. The police in the UK were able to arrest people much more easily than in the States. American police needed probable cause to make an arrest, but in the United Kingdom, officers could arrest just on suspicion.

I pushed out my wrists in front of me to show good will.

The police officer said, “That won’t be necessary, sir. If you men can both come along with us quietly and do not resist, we won’t be needing restraints.”

“Sure,” I told him, offering a limp smile. My mind raced back to the possibility of the evidence being in the closet. Damn, I wished I’d had one more look, but it would have caused mayhem. James was already suspicious; I couldn’t draw attention to the closet, not even look at it. I’d have no choice but to be led like a lamb to slaughter to the police station, and call Sophie to get my lawyer there, ASAP. Meanwhile, I wouldn’t incriminate myself, wouldn’t give evidence. I had ‘the right to remain silent,’ and I’d damn well use that right.

“Come along please,” the small policeman ordered, ushering James and me out of the bedroom. I ambled along peacefully but James, disgusted by the Cockney policeman’s hand clamped on his wrist, shouted, “Get your hands off me!”

I knew that things would now get worse.

The Napoleon complex officer stood ‘tall’ and commanded, “On second thoughts, cuff them both. I really don’t want any trouble.” He pointed a fat finger at James and hissed, “You, sir, need to calm right down.”

“He’s upset, sir; his wife’s just died,” the policewoman suggested to her boss.

“Yes, well. I don’t want any monkey business when I’m in charge, thank you very much.”

It felt humiliating to be arrested and cuffed. My mind traced back to the time when I ‘cuffed’ Pearl with the string of Art Deco pearls, and wondered if she had felt the same; humiliated. Christ, I hoped not, I hadn’t meant it that way. Jesus, how embarrassing, my cock started throbbing just thinking about her naked—her hands above her head, her legs splayed open and bound to my brass bed with my blue silk ties. Her pussy soaking wet as I licked and sucked her to her first, ever, oral orgasm. Pearl was all mine. No one else had given her such pleasure sexually. I loved going down on her—she tasted so sweet. Shit! I felt myself expanding; it was as if my heartbeat were right between my legs. I knew that Pearl nicknamed it my Weapon of Mass Destruction and she was right—it could bring me to ruin if I wasn’t more careful. Thank God I was still wearing my overcoat. Jesus, I had a full hard-on now. How I could possibly have an erection in the middle of being arrested was an enigma to me, but there it was. Pretty fucked-up to be thinking about sex at a moment like this. I’d heard that when men got hung, they found it erotic. It was known as a “death erection” and “angel lust.” I’d read somewhere that Christ was depicted by several Renaissance artists with a post-mortem erection after the crucifixion. Maybe, that was what was happening now—I knew I was about to be hung, drawn and slaughtered, figuratively speaking.

As we exited, the housekeeper, Mrs. Blake, was bustling towards the front door with a bunch of grocery bags. She looked horrified.

“What on earth is going on?” She gazed at James. “Mr. Heimann, what’s happening? I wasn’t expecting you back until tomorrow.”

“I’m afraid you can’t go in there for the now,” the policeman in charge said. “Not until the coroner has finished and forensics have done their bit.”

James told her in a grave tone, “I’m sorry, Mrs. Blake, Mrs. Heimann took a fall. She’s dead.”

Mrs. Blake looked at the handcuffs and began to quiver uncontrollably. “But it was an accident, surely?”

“We don’t know that yet, madam. Please move aside. I’m sure Mr. Heimann will get in touch with you when you’re needed.”

“But Mr. Heimann is innocent!” she screeched. “And this gentleman here, Mr. Chevalier. I know him. They would never have hurt Mrs. Heimann. Never! Handcuffs! You are
arresting
them? This is madness!”

“Please move aside, madam. This is being treated as a crime scene until further notice.”

James stood erect and said, “Don’t worry, Mrs. Blake, it’s just a little misunderstanding, that’s all. I’ll ring you very shortly. Meanwhile, consider it paid leave.”

As I was bundled into the police car and driven away, I pictured Laura, dead. She had a serene smile on her lipsticked lips as if the accident really had taken her unawares. I remembered the color red, vivid and dramatic—the pool of blood, the crimson of her silky negligee, her shiny, vermillion-painted lips. Both James and I looked guilty as dogs that had raided the trash—me just coming in through the back, via the garage door, and James suddenly emerging from the front door. Which one of us was a victim of circumstance, and which one a murderer? That’s what everyone would be thinking now. How we’d fixed our gaze, first on Laura, and then one another, both suspicious.

I thought of Pearl at the George V. I’d had my cell switched off all this time—Pearl calling, while I was negotiating with Laura, would add fuel to the already raging fire. Pearl had probably been trying to call. But now they’d only allow me one phone call and that would have to be to Sophie. In any case, I didn’t want to worry Pearl in her delicate, pregnant state. Sophie could deal with everything. I hoped she’d pull out all the guns. Get me out of this mess.

Jesus. What a fucking nightmare.

D
AISY WAS NOW sprawled out on the living room sofa, sozzled from all the pink champagne. I felt responsible, although she didn’t seem to care at all. I left her lying there with a grin spread across her face like the Cheshire Cat.

Amy had been rushing about with excitement. I’d ordered room service for us all, although Daisy was beyond repair and didn’t seem interested in eating. So I put a couple of large bottles of Perrier water on the coffee table, and a ceramic bowl next to her to vomit in, just in case. The place was far too fancy to have a bucket and I didn’t want to call down. I then gave Amy a sumptuous bubble bath in the grand marbled bathroom and put her to bed.

I returned to the living room to check on Daisy and covered her with a blanket. She had miraculously perked up and was in the mood for a chat.

“You’re not feeling sick?” I asked.

“No! I’m feeling simply marvelous. Bloody delicious champers . . . got anymore?”

“No, we’ve run out,” I lied. “But there’s lots of delicious mineral water.”

“Bore Ring.”

“I put Amy to bed.”

“Good girl. You, not Amy. You’re a good girl for doing that.”

Yes, she’s tipsy alright.
“Okay, I think you’re ready now for the delicious soup I ordered for you. Wait there and I’ll heat it up. Organic chicken noodle soup with Shiitake mushrooms and ginger.”

“Sounds delicious.”

“Doesn’t it? Give me five minutes and I’ll be back.”

I heard Daisy glugging down some water as I went to the kitchen. It really was like an apartment here. I could get used to this easy luxury, I decided. Gourmet food on tap, flower arrangements changing daily.

Still no word from Alexandre. A frisson of fear ran up my spine as I thought of all the possibilities. Why hadn’t he called? It could only mean one thing: bad news. Laura had persuaded him to do the IVF and he was stalling. He didn’t want to hear me scream and cry about it. I swore to myself I wouldn’t; that I’d remain cool, calm and collected, and accept whatever decision he made, but the more I thought about Laura pregnant, the sicker I felt.

I returned with Daisy’s soup, on a tray. It smelled incredible, and I was tempted to order more, although I’d had a delicious Club Sandwich, earlier.

As I laid the tray on Daisy’s lap, I felt as if I was feeding an invalid. Chicken noodle soup could heal anything, even an impending hangover. “Are you sure you’re not going to take a spoonful and vomit everywhere,” I checked.

“Ha! You think I’m a wimp, don’t you? I used to drink quite a bit, in my day. You should have seen me down the pub; I could drink any man under the table.” I spread a napkin like a bib around her neck, and she slurped down some of the broth. “Oh my God, this soup is out of this world.” She looked as if she’d died and gone to Heaven. “Oh, by the way, I forgot to say. Remember when I slipped out of the restaurant this afternoon to go to the chemist to get some Advil?”

“The chemist?”

“Sorry, I mean ‘pharmacy’ –chemist is English. Anyway, I didn’t have a headache at all. I went to buy us some naughty toys.”

I widened my eyes with mock disapproval. “From that sex shop we passed earlier?”

Daisy giggled. “Yes. I slipped in and got something for each of us.”

“You saucy wench, Daisy.”

“I’ve never used anything like that before in my life, but now I’m single I thought it was time to experiment.”

“Well, I’ll have to wait to use mine. I still have to be careful.”

“Ah, but I thought of that, Pearl. Yours isn’t,” she lowered her voice to a tiny whisper, “a
dildo
 . . . it doesn’t penetrate, it
vibrates
. It’s called the something deux, for the two of you. It splits in half—you’ll see how it works.” She giggled again. “The ‘hers’ part is convex and the ‘his’ part is concave, apparently. Or is it the other way round? Anyway, the saleswoman told me it was very popular with couples, and a best seller.”

“So when Amy and I were innocently eating our chocolate mousse, you were out buying
sex
toys?”

“I know, isn’t it outrageous?”

“Where are they?”

“I left the bags in the closet, by the entrance. I hope Amy doesn’t find them.” She slurped another mouthful of soup. “God this is good, you wanna try some?”